An old beggar maid sits in the peepul’s shade ,
Her sari is as wrinkled as her face-
And a study in contrast between her present and past
Are her lined brow, and clear, calm gaze.
Each wrinkled fold on her forehead tells
Of suffering, pain and sorrow.
But her twinkling eyes seem ready to size
Up and eager to welcome the morrow.
She has nothing to fear, even Death does not leer
At a warrior who follows her creed- rejecting insecurity and greed .
I wonder , whether , after Life’s fierce storm
Has she reached a permanent port of calm,
Or, is this a hiatus, and her spirit must go on
To a different Time in a different form?